Thursday, October 31, 2013

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Monday, October 28, 2013

Depression
is such a cruel punishment. There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood
tests to send people scurrying in concern. Just the slow erosion of
the self, as insidious as any cancer. And, like cancer, it is
essentially a solitary experience. A room in hell with only your name
on the door.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Empty platitudes scribbled on a bar napkin by some poor guy who was probably just trying to get them out of his system. The kind of stuff printed on posters and shipped across the country to schools and office buildings, the words that promise an impossible future. The handwriting is sloppy, but this makes sense given the number of napkins that feature a ring of condensation, the only memory of the drinks consumed, beyond any regrets this guy has tomorrow.

The bartender is flirting with a young man who is waiting for his friends to arrive. The young man is handsome, but in a conceivable kind of way and the bartender acknowledges this with both his wondering eyes and steady, affected voice. The young man laughs politely at a joke the bartender told, but his smile is strained and empty. The bartender does not seem to notice this and walks away with a look on his face that shows his belief that the young man made up his friends as an excuse to stay at the bar and talk to him. Minutes later, the unimagined friends arrive and them and the young man leave. The bartender does not betray his previous, silent burst of pride. He cleans a glass and asks if I'd like another drink.

I collect the napkins and sort through them, rolling my eyes periodically to assure those around me that I find no comfort in such shallow banality. I pause at one napkin that reads, There is no time like the present. This is a very stupid thing to believe. The moments which predate the current time are identical to the present. They were created and lived through, ten swallowed by the chasm of time which is currently working to collect this very moment and consider it the past. The future will likely work the same way, though, as another napkin dictates, The future is unwritten.

I try not to check my phone and am unsuccessful for a matter of minutes. Then I see that he has not responded to my messages and I place my phone back into my pocket and stabilize my collapsing head on the palms of my hands, leaning towards the bar, beckoning for someone that does not exist. I sigh, finish my drink, and eye the bartender. I do this somewhat flirtatiously, now that I know his loneliness. The method is effective.

The bartender gives me my drink and asks what a guy like me is doing alone and I am granted a sudden understanding of that man's false laughter. The man is more closely related to the series of napkins than someone like myself. But I am too alone to be judgemental and tell him that I have been stood up. He tells me that my drink is on the house and gives me a patronizing frown that costs me more than the rum and coke ever would.

An hour later and the bar is nearly empty. The bartender breaks the tragic news that it is last call to us and I pay my tab and consider the door. I turn to the bartender and ask him what he is doing now that his work is done. He flashes me a cheesy smile and, after all the patrons have gone, pours us both shots.

We have been talking for around thirty minutes but he has not left his side of the bar or invited me to join him. So, I sit and he stands, a barrier between us that insists on classifications that no longer apply at this time of night. By this time I have grown sick of his voice and either want to move this thing along or depart. He has only spoken of his friends or work. These are both dull topics, for his work seems to consist mainly striking out with guys and his friends have names like 'Danger Dan' and 'Big T'. I consider kissing him to shut him up, but then he excuses himself out the back exit for a cigarette and I'm bored of the taste of cigarettes. He makes me promise to wait for his return. I don't.

At this point of night, the street is mostly clear of the herd of obnoxious 30-something drunks, but the young drunks are still collected in packs, hoping at this time the 4am bars will deliver forgetful experiences. Such a bar does not exist, which leads to the existence of the 30-somethings that are only now returning home.

I forgot to turn the heat on before I left so my apartment is as cold as the night surrounding it. I turn up the thermostat and grab three heavy blankets and resign to the couch. I flip through a novel that drips with pretension and then I flip through channels that hold nothing but infomercials and reruns of shows I didn't care about the first time around.

After a while the heat is functioning and I shed my blankets and stare at the ceiling. I began to whistle the shitty pop song that was blaring from a cab's radio outside the bar. I stop whistling and think of the bartender. He was likely sad when I left, for both the lack of conversation and the physical aftermath he considered implied. He likely picked up the stack of napkins, sorting through them and finding some solace in their simple words. Perhaps he will finally be capable of appreciating the journey in lieu of the destination, or realize the percentage of untaken shots he will miss.I suppose there are worse things than empty platitudes scribbled onto napkins. I suppose there is the bar with the missing guy without napkins that reveal the lives you could be leading.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

I asked myself a long time ago where I'd thought I'd be in five years. Or I should say, the question was posed to me and I had no answer and I went home and thought about it over Lord of the Flies, a fresh pack of smokes, and a pot of coffee. What I decided was this: I would still be myself in those five long years from now. Not to say I'd thought they'd be long, but more that they would go slow until it was time to look back on them.

I didn't see the point on trying to change. Sure, change can be good, but I thought I was doing okay: some money, a place to live, and some friends to drink with. Some music, the internet, a typewriter and a laptop. Clothes. Happiness, however that is measured (I found out from others that I was happy, I guess I'd never realized it) I moved from day to day in the monotony but contented. I spent the nights carelessly. I made love recklessly. I kissed the stars and found his lips like silvered spoons. They were beautiful and I was stuck on the ground.

We'll see what tomorrow or next week or two months from now or my deathbed has for me. I guess I'm anxious to find out, but not enough to see a psychic so I know. I don't like conjecture about the future. I like to live it. I like to take each sip of coffee like the Egyptian artifacts they are. Rarities meant to be found in the future by people who weren't me. My life a mystery I'll write in small sentences until it ends. Maybe someone will publish it, someday. Maybe I'll sink beneath the waves and I'll find peace. Someday.

Monday, October 21, 2013

Sensations we understand come first by knowing their presence
lurking in alleyways like forgotten trash left to dwell in between
those triumphant, tall buildings. We understand their necessity, yet
we ignore them. The human impulse to understand gets thrown aside and
we accept the things we see, the gutter people, the litter, the signs
of life we don’t even look down to see.

The way raindrops skip against puddles. The way smoke from fall
cigarettes mingles with clouds as its welcomed to stay.

The way a ten foot piece of rope can be used to disguise our
understanding of each other. To create chattel, to hang the people we
refuse to understand.

To pull each foot tighter and tighter around a thin, slender
throat, feeling the rough fibers coming undone and creating friction
against skin, the veins and tendons clamoring for understanding and
growing at their upset, the rope clinging to rope, the fibers
clinging to skin, the pressure widening eyes.

And for once you understand what death feels like. Sudden,
gruesome death. Both its inception and its aftermath, its beginning
and its end.

Death knocks on the door and by the time you’ve let it in it’s
already left. Finished. Moving on.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen it stare at me from
across the street, or linger in my cup of coffee, breathing its
promise to find me in thin, wispy smoke. I can’t tell you why we’ve
never met. I can’t tell you why I hold my breath.

But I’ve seen him laugh, and I fear for the day that rope is
around my neck. Because I always fear the inevitable, I just wish I
knew when.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

I gave it everything I had. My chest heaved and my body rocked.
The tears flowed faster than I knew was possible. I threw everything
I had into that cry. All the rage, all the frustration, all the pain.
I threw the loneliness too. And the disappointment. I threw happiness
in there as well, what little bit of it had managed to pierce the
veil of my life these past few months. I put it in there because
thinking of it, thinking of how foreign it seemed to me, threw
everything else into sharper focus.

It was exhausting, crying like this, but I kept going. I needed
this. I needed it out of me, because if I kept it inside of me any
longer I was going to implode. The sadness was going to swallow me
whole, and there would be nothing left. Nothing at all. This was me
fighting against that nothing. I had been starting to go numb inside,
and that’s not what I wanted. No matter what happened, I didn’t
want to disappear from the world. There was always collateral damage
when someone did that. I knew from experience, and I refused to do
that to anyone. Ever.

So I cried. It was harder than I thought. I felt every moment of
sadness from the past few months as it came back up. I felt as though
I was living it all again, in sharp succession. But it was okay. I
had survived it all the first time, so I knew I could make it through
again. There had to be something else on the other side of this cry.
So I kept going. I cried past the point of tears. I cried past the
violent, heaving sobs into a softer, murmured cry. Then, eventually,
it stopped.

I was proud of myself for making it through. I felt empty now. Not
numb, but empty. Empty was good. I could fill the emptiness with
something. This time, I'll try to fill it with better things.

Sunday, October 06, 2013

I think the best thing about it was that you thought you’d
gotten away with it.

You just appeared pretty much out of nowhere (and trust me I’m
not exaggerating here because everyone was shocked) and then tried to
act so naturally like it wasn’t strange that you’d said goodbye
forty-five minutes ago and yet somehow here you were again.

That’s probably the greatest part about the whole thing
actually.

Your casual reappearance; a stumbling fool emerging from the
shadows wearing a grin I just wanted to smack off. You were so smug
with yourself, swanning around with your false sense of achievement.
It was wonderful to watch because everything about you was a dead
giveaway - the sway, the slump, the slur, the stench - and yet you
tried so desperately to maintain some semblance of coordination. We
watched as you spat out a beer-soaked monologue no one could make
sense of. We all shook our heads at you and laughed under our breath
and tittered to each other and you didn’t even notice. Either that
or you were too far gone to give a shit.

It got better when you followed us to the next bar and trapped
someone in a confusing and illogical string of words and sentences
too jumbled to be even called a conversation. Especially seeing as
the other party did nothing but look distressed and attempt to
retreat. You kept talking and talking in his face. I literally heard
you say the words “he rips her arm off and beats her with it” and
I’m pretty sure that’s when I choked on my drink.

I couldn’t stop staring. It was like one of those horrific car
crashes that is so spectacularly bad that you can’t look away. I
think I was just so mesmerised by the whole thing after all the jokes
we’d made. To have someone finally embody the ridiculous enigma
we’d all created in our minds. This concept that existed purely for
our amusement.

If I really think about it, I’m kind of jealous that you got to
be the one to strip me of my title but to be fair, it’s so
befitting it would be selfish of me not to relinquish it. I dunno,
maybe I’m still shocked I got to experience it. A run in with an
imaginary idea; the real surprise trashbag.

Thursday, October 03, 2013

Thursday night: I’m sad sometimes, but it doesn’t rev up and
swallow me like it used to. It sort of sneaks up on me at inopportune
moments and leaps out from under me. It goes slow.

Slow like your movements in the tavern booth. The smooth steady
pulsing of your temple as you tell your sixth beer how it all began
to fall apart. You don’t blink. My fingers follow the water
droplets on the table as I hear you, and I hear me too.

You weren’t enough for me.

For a moment we’re friends again, like being almost lovers never
happened. Like we’re two lonely people, coincidentally sad and
drunk.

You’re bold and concise with your words, but I know you’re
hurt. I do the same with mine because it hurts that he wasn’t
enough for me. And when I tell you, you smile and slowly shake your
head. you tell me I’m difficult and I know that you of all people
know. I start to shake as you remind me.

We’re drinking like a sleepy summer’s just starting, words
slurring and heat rising. You have the same stupid jokes. you put
your mouth to my ear, fighting ambient sound. I do the same with mine
because I know what it used to mean to you. You haven’t changed,
and you pretend like I haven’t either, ordering me bottles of sol
like it’s 2010 all over again.

Wednesday, October 02, 2013

If you’re gone the days will go by faster, since the minutes
won’t be so tied up with waiting for you to come home. If you’re
gone, the skyline that has become my fortress will shine like heaven,
will clog the black hole you left in my confidence. It won’t be
until I lock myself into my bed for sleep that the independence, the
invincibility I feel at having rebuilt my life will vanish.

If you’re gone I’ll feel small and disposable, I’ll start
walking with my head down and singing songs about clinging to lost
love. My morning shower will take fifteen minutes longer, because I
had to stand under the hot water to sing the words to one more song
you would never have understood the meaning of. My morning coffee
will be drunk with my fictitious companions who visit me in the form
of old 90’s sitcoms. I will sit back and laugh at the way life’s
many obstacles dissolve with ‘I’m sorry’ or a martini and a
muffin.

If you’re gone you’ll free up space in the soul of my
existence to turn you into something that you’re not. You will give
birth to a new self, and I will be the one to own this new you. This
new man you’ll create will smoke cigarettes that don’t make me
think of cancer and death. His willful ignorance about the world
around him will be charming instead of the catalyst to another fight.
When he refuses to hold my hand, I’ll believe it’s because he was
trying to protect me from something, maybe himself. And instead of
asking him about it, I’ll thank him by not resisting his desire to
make love one more time.

Tuesday, October 01, 2013

I slam my head against the pageshoping that the words will
bleed out.Crying because the Muse doesn’t returnand I have
these emotions swelling in my brain.There’s no release, no way
out.No getting rid of this feeling.Scribbling holes into
notebook paper,trying to sling together how I feelbut there
is no relief for those who try.My eyes burning with each second I
stareand I’ve already dried my tears.The lines on paper
pulsing like veins,taunting me with every beat.Oh word, oh
word, just take me now.

My published works: (Also available on Kindle)

A story of excess and addictions.Click the thumbnail and buy a copy today!

Blew the Shot

Part biography, part horror tale, part touchingly emotional psycho-drama, this intriguing novel weaves up to the appalling incident behind William Burroughs' murder of Joan Vollmer. Click the thumbnail and buy a copy today!

Borrowed Flesh

A lurid tale of a life going down the tubes. Own a copy today! Simply click on the cover photo to be directed to the sales page.

hobosexual

A tragic story of a homeless gay man's journey to find purpose in life. Click the picture to the publishers link to order a copy. It's safe and secure!.

Of Men and Maggots

An on the road romance of two lives on separate paths. Click the thumbnail and buy a copy today!

Tijuana Bebop

A hellish report of postmodern schizophrenia....click on the cover and buy a copy today!

Dark is the Night

A raw and gritty book concerning life's outcasts. Click onto the picture and purchase a copy today from the publisher's secure e-store!

Puta

Fractured romance south of the border. Click the thumbnail and buy a copy today!

Class Conscious Poetry.

Crazy, insane madness - set to verse! You can purchase a copy at the publishers estore by clicking on the pic!

Followers

Copyrighted Material

Legal formalities below.

All original content appearing on any page or part of this blog/website, including (but not limited to) written text, photography, art, and the banner at the pagehead, is strictly copyright, borrowedflesh.blogspot.com 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017 and 2018 remains the sole property of the author. All rights reserved. Send queries via luis.blasini@yahoo.com.